


True Love Conquers All

by amberfox17



Series: Actual Disney Princes Thor and Loki [5]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Maleficent (2014) Fusion, Fluff, M/M, True Love's Kiss, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 19:24:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3500042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberfox17/pseuds/amberfox17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Loki held Thor and one time Thor held Loki, or a fairytale Maleficent AU with jotun sorcerer Loki, pretty Prince Thor, cheeky familiar Fenrir, evil King Odin and no fairies of any kind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	True Love Conquers All

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [True Love Conquers All：真爱至上](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3624069) by [Maryandmathew](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maryandmathew/pseuds/Maryandmathew)



> In collaboration with [Marty](http://marty-mc.tumblr.com), who is unbelievably patient and drew [the cutest fanart for this AU](http://amberfox17.tumblr.com/post/112998540858)!

**Five times Loki held Thor, and one time Thor held Loki**

**I: To curse him**

“My, my, my,” Loki says. “What a perfectly hideous child.”

Odin growls but quickly subsides as Loki flashes him a glare, fingers crooked into a cast. Even trapped within the ice Frigga is still struggling, glowing faintly as she draws on her own magic, but neither she nor Odin are a match for the icefolk in wintertime, and Loki carries winter in his heart as he once carried it on his wings.

Loki reaches into the crib and lifts out the new Princeling, who mewls in surprise at the coldness of Loki’s touch. Only a few days old, the little blonde cherub has known nothing but love and comfort and so he lies placidly enough in Loki’s arms, chewing on a fist and gazing up at Loki with the vague curiosity of the newborn. So innocent. So pure. So _happy_.

Black rage swamps Loki and for a heartbeat he seriously considers simply smashing the creature’s brains out on the flagstones of the hall.

No. The hate recedes swiftly enough and Loki sucks in a much-needed breath. Since he took the Casket into himself he has found it harder and harder to put aside his hate and think clearly, but it is a price worth paying to have his vengeance on the snivelling Asgardians and their treacherous, lying King; if murder were all he wanted he would have cut Odin down here and now instead of freezing the entire court as mute witnesses to his judgement. No, Odin must suffer as he has suffered, and his firstborn child and heir is the key to dragging out the bastard’s torture over years and years and years.

“I curse this child,” Loki says, pressing one finger to little Thor’s heart, the blue of his true form creeping up his flesh as he draws on the deep wells of the Casket’s power. Ice blooms across the castle window panes, frost and fractals skittering over the blocks of ice holding the spectators captive as the temperature drops further still. “Ten summers he shall have, in all his beauty and grace, and ten again, but in his twenty-first year he shall be bitten by a serpent, take nine paces and fall. No power in the Nine Realms can undo this curse and no power can break it: so shall it be!”

Loki meets Odin’s furious gaze with his own cold, crimson one and holds it for a smug second before calling back his Asgardian form. Thor squirms in his arms, trying, of all things, to nuzzle into him: intelligence is unlikely to be this brat’s defining quality, it would seem.

He unceremoniously dumps the child back in its crib and turns on his heel, Fenrir falling silently into place beside him as he strides out of the hall, elegant, controlled, _victorious_ –

The ice block shatters in a flurry of shards and swiftly melting snow, as Frigga bursts free, glowing with her own power and righteous fury.

“I will not deny that you have been wronged, Loki of Jotunheim,” she shouts at him, placing herself between Loki and the crib. “But my child will not die for your broken heart!”

“My heart is dead,” Loki spits at her, already flinging more ice towards the crib, only to be blocked by her upflung hand. “Torn from me along with my wings.”

“I am sorry for what was done to you,” she says, steely and stately as she holds off the ice with one hand, the other reaching for her son. “But I believe even your heart can mend in time – and the day will come with you regret this curse. I enchant this child, my child, flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood. Ten summers he shall have, beloved by all who know him, and ten again the same; yet though he will fall in his twenty-first year, he shall not die, but fall into a sleep like death, to be broken only by true love’s first kiss.”

Loki tips his head back and laughs, manic peals that echo in the rafters and frozen silence of the hall. “True love’s first kiss,” he sneers, abandoning his ice in favour of a sharper weapon. “Then he shall sleep forever! I congratulate you, Queen of Asgard. How much worse to watch your son wither away in his bed, lost to the world through his youth and prime, wasting away for want of a fairytale like _love_. I would have had you mourn once, but now you shall mourn day upon day for the rest of your miserable lives.”

“You are wrong,” Frigga says. “I hope for your sake you understand that one day.”

Loki laughs at her once more, ignoring Fenrir’s muffled whines, and sweeps regally from the hall, fingers clenched tight around his staff.

“A good day’s work, I think,” he says as they proceed down the river of ice he carved through the fertile summer lands of Odin’s kingdom.

Fenrir huffs to himself, but only presses more closely against Loki’s leg as they cross the border into Jotunheim; it has been a long journey and Loki tires easily on foot. He breathes easier within his own borders and yet something is still unsettled inside him, a dull ache that Odin’s abject misery has failed to quell.

“Keep an eye on the child,” he says to Fenrir, lifting a hand. “I would know how the King suffers.”

Fenrir backs away. “Happy to, Master, but please, as a wolf, not as a -”

There’s a poof of feathers and Fenrir squawks angrily, fluttering up from the snow to perch on Loki’s shoulder. “Hush,” Loki says to the raven. “Now go.”

Fenrir caws right into his ear and takes off, circling back round to Odin’s castle, a dim smudge of turrets from here. Loki watches him go and stands alone for a moment in the snow, watching the snowflakes vanish instantly as they are buffeted from the cold of Jotunheim into Asgard’s blazing warmth, a dull ache in his shoulder blades where his wings once were. Winter and summer. Surely, their worlds were never meant to mix.

The King of Winter draws himself up and walks away without a backward glance.

***

**II: To get rid of him**

“Master!” Fenrir barks, springing towards him through the frozen undergrowth. “Master, the child is here!”

“What?”

Fenrir skids to a halt, snow crunching under his paws. “Thor, Master! Thor has crossed into Jotunheim!”

“I hardly though you meant someone else’s child,” Loki snaps. “Go and force him back!”

“I tried,” Fenrir says. “I snarled and lunged and knocked him down, but he just laughed and said ‘nice doggy’!”

Loki rubs a hand over his face. “How that cunning old bastard spawned such an idiot, I will never understand.” 

“Master,” Fenrir says urgently, “the child is not dressed for Jotunheim. If we don’t help him, he will surely freeze to death.”

“So?” Loki says, but his mind is racing. If Thor dies in Jotunheim, Odin will be here with his ironclad army and burning spear the very same day, and this time he will not stop at tearing off Loki’s wings. The icefolk will rally to Loki in the face of such an attack, but his people are still recovering from the last invasion; the odds are against them, and the consequences of losing too terrible to contemplate. Besides, the whole point of his curse was to make Odin suffer, to have fear and pain gnaw at him day after day as he watches Thor grow, knowing he will lose him all too soon: to have the boy die now, barely seven summers old, is not satisfaction enough.

Loki sighs bitterly. “Where is he now?”

Fenrir bounds away instantly and Loki follows on foot. After so many years the physical pain has left him, and yet each slow step still burns within him as he picks his way through the dense forest. Luckily, he does not have far to go, for Fenrir leads him to the old oak tree, his one-time favourite roost, now a bare and blasted skeleton whipped by winter winds. Thor is huddled into the tangle of roots, shivering violently, his lips almost as blue as Loki’s skin.

Loki reaches for the back of his neck and then pauses, considering his own black fingernails. When Odin saw him in this form he had been disgusted, and all the other Asgardians terrified – no doubt Thor will react in a similar way. The last thing they need is for him to flee farther into Loki’s lands, and so Loki calls up his Asgardian form, milk-white and green-eyed, before he grabs Thor by his collar.

“What are you doing here, little beast?” he barks, lifting Thor out of his hiding place and dropping him on to flatter ground so he can loom over the child.

“’M lost,” Thor says, teeth chattering.

“A likely story,” Loki says dryly; Jotunheim is not a place the Asgardians can wander into lightly. “You must leave. Now.”

Thor nods, wide-eyed as he stares at Loki. “’I’m cold.”

“You are underdressed,” Loki points out. Thor’s tunic and shirt are perfectly suitable for a brisk day in Asgard, but Jotunheim is locked in perpetual winter and any human foolish enough to come here needs to be dressed accordingly.

Thor holds out his arms and smiles.

“Go away,” Loki says. “Shoo.”

“I’m Thor,” the boy says, still beaming. “I like your coat.”

“It’s a cape, actually,” Loki says, preening a little before he can stop himself.

“You’re very pretty,” Thor says, shuffling closer, arms still outstretched.

Little sod, Loki thinks, glaring at him. Starting early, aren’t we? But the boy’s eyes are guileless and he’s beaming at Loki despite his obvious discomfort in the cold.

“Fine,” Loki says and picks him up. He’s quite heavy for his age, and too old really to be held like this, but it’s nothing to an ice giant’s strength, even one so small as Loki. Loki begrudgingly lets Thor snuggle against him, flicking a quick warming spell through the pair of them to make sure the boy won’t die on the way back.

“Do you live here?” Thor asks, wrapping an arm around Loki’s neck as they set off for the border.

“Yes.”

“In the forest?”

“Yes.”

“My father says the forest is dangerous and full of wicked creatures.”

“Does he.”

“He says I mustn’t ever come here, in case something awful happens to me.”

“Clearly, you did not take this useful advice.”

“I’m a great warrior,” Thor boasts, squirming so he can sit up. “And I’m brave!”

“You’re a fool,” Loki says. “You would have died here if I had not found you.”

Thor chews his lip. “But I like it here. It’s pretty.”

“Jotunheim is beautiful,” Loki corrects. “The most beautiful of all realms. But you are not allowed to come here. It is forbidden.”

Thor pouts mulishly and too late Loki realises that was probably not the best thing to say to a rebellious child. He shifts Thor in his arms and walks faster, with the aim of minimising such inane conversation, but the questions keep coming, over and over.

Far too long a time later, Loki carries Thor over the border, snowflakes sizzling as they melt in the heat. Why must walking take so long?

“Is that your dog?” Thor says, having exhausted every other possible question about who Loki is, where he lives, and what he knows about Jotunheim, none of which Loki deigned to answer.

Loki glances behind them to see Fenrir trailing at a distance, keeping to the winter lands, tongue lolling out in a lupine grin. “That is Fenrir, and he is a most irritating wolf.”

“Can I pet him?”

“No.”

Thor is quiet for a moment, leaning back into Loki, his heart leaping like a rabbit in his chest. Does he bear the mark of Loki’s curse beneath his shirt? A frostbitten scar over his heart? Or did his mother heal that too when she bent Loki’s magic as far as it could go?

He goes to put Thor down, but the child is surprisingly fast and grabs one of Loki’s horns before he can do so.

“Can I come and play with you tomorrow?” Thor asks, fascinated by the textured gold of Loki’s headdress, a convenient disguise for his horns.

“Of course not,” Loki says, wondering what in the realms is wrong with this child. “I am far too busy. And besides, you must have lessons and such things. I do not think Asgard’s prince has much time for silly games.”

“I hate my lessons,” Thor says, absently placing one small hand on Loki’s cheek as he examines the horn. “And when I run away, no-one comes looking for me.”

“Surely your mother -”

“My mother died,” Thor says. “I don’t think Father likes me very much.”

Loki is silent. He has sent Fenrir to spy on Thor many times, but only when Thor was outside of the castle, and since he cut off all communication between the two realms before Thor was born, in truth he knows little of what takes place in Asgard. It is better that way, but still, it is a shock to hear of the Queen’s death. It is not something he can take pleasure in.

“You are your father’s sole heir,” he says after a moment. “You are his most precious treasure.”

Thor shrugs, an oddly adult gesture, which serves to unbalance him and Loki must catch him as he slides off his arm. He ends up holding the child to his chest for a few moments and Thor’s fists close around the plush velvet of Loki’s cape.

“I’m coming back to the forest tomorrow,” Thor says, face pressed against Loki. “I’ll wear my furs this time.”

“Don’t you dare,” Loki warns in his most threatening voice.

“I like you,” Thor says, as if sharing a very great secret. “You’re funny.”

“I hate you,” Loki says, but his heart’s not in it, and Thor just giggles in response as Loki disentangles him and sets him on his feet.

“Bye!” Thor calls and then he’s off, running back towards the castle where despite what he says, people must be looking for him. He’s too valuable to be left wandering alone, especially so close to the border. Unless Odin has already given up on this child, since without his mother’s protection he is certainly doomed to fall in a few years’ time? Is that old bastard even now looking for a new bride to bear him a new son? If so, then Loki’s curse has served nothing, and he has squandered both his power and opportunity.

Loki knows little of children, Asgardian or icefolk, but it seems strange to him that so young a boy would make such a determined effort to cross into Jotunheim. The Asgardians have always told tales of the fierce and terrible icefolk to keep their young in line, and since the war and Odin’s treachery, Loki has seen to it that such fear has spread to the adults as well. He has learnt to his cost the perils of befriending other races; better to be monsters of myth and given a wide berth than to be known and their weaknesses exposed. So why would Thor run here?

“What a curious child,” Fenrir comments as Loki returns to Jotunheim, brooding morosely on best laid plans and the unfathomable strangeness of the Asgardians.

“He’s likely to cross the border again,” Loki says. “We can’t have any of the others finding him. They’d panic at an Asgardian in the winterlands, even such a small one. Keep watch for him, and alert me if he comes.”

“Oh, great,” Fenrir says, shaking his shaggy ruff. “More border patrol. Lucky me.”

“Would you rather tend the ice with my brother giants?” Loki asks pointedly. “Last time they mistook you for a pair of slippers and nearly crushed you under foot.”

Fenrir feigns a shudder. “Have no fear, Master,” he says. “You can count on me to keep Jotunheim safe from small children.”

“Away, away,” Loki says, flapping a hand at him.

Fenrir lopes away, pausing at the edge of the undergrowth. “He is a sweet thing, that Thor,” he says. “What do you mean to do with him when he trespasses again?”

“Get rid of him,” Loki says. “Oh, not like _that_. I’ll just keeping shooing him away until he gets the hint.”

“Right,” Fenrir says. “Well, I’m sure you know best.”

“Away,” Loki barks, fingers crooking into the spell to swap Fenrir’s smart mouth for black feathers, and Fenrir vanishes into the forest immediately. Never has he ever had such an upstart familiar!

Almost without realising it, he puts his hand to his cheek, where the warmth of Thor’s hand still seems to linger. Never has he ever been called ‘pretty’ either, nor had anyone turn to him for comfort.

“Idiot child,” he hisses under his breath, and sweeps away into the shadows.

***

**III: To protect him**

Loki steps over the frozen bodies of the Asgardian soldiers to where Fenrir is sitting with his tongue lolling out, looking mightily pleased with himself.

“They ran like rabbits,” he says happily. “Right into your trap!”

“Sending you to round them up hardly counts as a trap,” Loki says. “But it does make freezing them easier, and should remind them why the borderlands are no place for training drills.”

He speaks confidently, but lets his long sleeve fall forward to hide his burned fingertips. The pain lingers longer than the wound, and he dislikes the reminder of how vulnerable all the icefolk are to iron – and the reminder of just how terrible the consequences of his friendship with Odin was, all those years ago. But why so many iron-armoured soldiers would be so close to the border, and on high alert for him, will have to wait for now, for as he picks his way to the edge of the clearing, he comes face to face with his more immediate problem.

“What to do with you,” Loki says to the sleeping Thor, “is a problem that I am quite sick of solving.”

“Or not solving,” Fenrir chips in. “Since if you solved it, it would go away.”

Loki flicks his fingers menacingly at him and Fenrir is mercifully silent – for a few moments, anyway.

“So what now?” he asks as Thor bobs weightlessly in front of them. “Shall I take him back to the castle?”

“He’ll only follow you back,” Loki says with a sigh. Letting Thor into Jotunheim as a child had proved a mistake: the boy had not tired of the frozen winterlands, as Loki assumed he would, nor of playing with Fenrir at every opportunity. Loki had been sure to hide himself away every time Thor crossed the border, and had never again spoken to the child, satisfying his own curiosity by watching from the shadows as Thor grew from a precocious child to an irritatingly impressive young man, tall and strong and beloved by all in his beauty and grace, just as promised.

Yet despite the love of his own people, time and again Thor sought out Jotunheim, sitting for hours at the border if Loki forbade Fenrir to respond to his calls. Fenrir reports that the young Prince is not lonely, being usually in the company of four friends in particular, but every few weeks or so, Thor leaves them behind to test the boundary with Jotunheim. His stubbornness is maddening beyond belief and yet – and yet, there is something in Loki that cannot help but be intrigued by Thor’s love of the winterlands.

“I wonder,” Loki murmurs, reaching out for Thor with a tendril of magic, pulling him along behind him as they melt into the forest and back into winter.

Loki has never allowed Thor to come further into Jotunheim than the bordering woods, but now he parts the thorny thicket of conifers and snow-clad pines and steps from the shadows of the trees onto the diamond-bright plateau of the icefields. Here, the mighty mountain glaciers meet, a river of ice churning and frothing, though with a stately slowness not even the icefolk can fully understand; here, the ever changing ice is fractured into spectacular columns of translucent blue, dusted with glittering snow, or drops away into crystal caverns carved out by the bright meltwater streams that flow through the glacier like arteries, opening up secret worlds within the frozen beast. Here, under the endless sky, is where Loki’s people gather, and here is where they have carved their temples and hearths and homes: shaping from the living ice, ever marching onwards, nests and villas and nooks and sprawling palaces which change every day.

Snow-sprites flutter in the air before them, their fractal wings as unique as the snowflakes they dance through, peering at the sleeping Thor through their jewel-like eyes and squeaking in alarm; Fenrir’s kin, the white wolves of the waste, pace at a respectful distance, singing mournful songs at the sight of an Asgardian this deep in Jotunheim. Far off in the distance, the huge forms of Loki’s brothers, the ice giants, can be seen pausing in their guiding of the glacier to lift their heads and look to what is being brought to their very doorstep, and their rumbling disquiet vibrates through Loki’s feet. His people are hiding, unsure and afraid, and their broken spirit sparks the old anger in him. But Thor is not Odin, and now is not then, and so he lets it flow through him, forces the Casket clamped tight around his heart to release just a little, and finds the calm he needs to lay Thor down on a bed of new fallen snow before concealing himself behind a frozen waterfall.

“Wake,” he whispers, and Thor does.

His wonder eases the ache in Loki, the lingering fear that he has mistaken an Asgardian’s heart yet again: Thor stands and stares about him, indifferent to what must be a bitter cold for him, openly fascinated by the new world he finds himself in. He reaches out a hand to the fluttering snow-sprites, who hover just out of reach, glancing anxiously from Thor to Loki; at Loki’s nod, the boldest edges forward, reaching out with its own tiny blue foot to brush over Thor’s palm. Thor remains perfectly still as the sprite lets its weight settle, tugs at Thor’s curled fingers and climbs atop Thor’s thumb, waving at its more cautious fellows. In in a heartbeat, Thor is covered in curious sprites, laughing to himself as they tease at his hair, his intriguing beard, his furred cloak – only to glimpse the breastplate underneath and scatter instantly, screeching in fear.

“Wait!” Thor cries, seemingly oblivious to the source of their distress. “I won’t hurt you -”

But they are gone, and the shifting light of the glacier allows the others nearby to flee until only Loki and Fenrir remain. Loki exhales softly, his burned fingers pressed against the blissful coolness of the ice. The breastplate is iron, as all Asgardian armour has been since the betrayal and the war. It was a risk, and not a small one, to bring Thor here wearing it, and yet it seemed important to do so.

In fairness to Asgard’s Prince, he is not doing anything to be frightened of, only turning in slow circles, snow crunching under his heavy boots as he looks out over the landscape, brow slightly furrowed now the snowsprites have left him. Loki will let him have a few moments more before he resumes Thor’s enchanted sleep and takes him back to Asgard.

 “I know you’re there,” Thor says as he completes his circuit, staring directly at Loki’s hiding place. “You shouldn’t be afraid of me.”

The thought is so absurd that Loki is answering it before he can consider otherwise. “I am not afraid of you, little beast.”

“Then come out,” Thor challenges. ““I know who you are.”

“Do you,” Loki says flatly, drawing his Asgardian form over himself like a cloak before he steps out.

“Yes,” Thor says, already moving forward to meet him. Loki has not been this close to Thor in years. He remembers the weight of the child in his arms, the warmth of his hand. But that boy is long gone and Loki can barely even see an echo of him in the man who stands before him, tall and strong and impossibly beautiful, with Asgard’s warm summer sun in his hair and its clear skies in his gaze –

“You are my fairy godfather,” Thor says, utterly derailing Loki’s train of thought.

“ _What?_ ”

“My fairy godfather,” Thor repeats, beaming at Loki. “The women of the palace often spoke of fairy godmothers watching over their children; ever since I saw you in the woods, I knew that you had to be mine.”

“I – wait, no,” Loki starts, baffled beyond belief, but Thor steps closer again and to his shock Loki realises they are of a height, allowing Thor to lock gazes with him as an equal.

“Your shadow has been with me, always,” Thor says earnestly, reaching for Loki’s hand. “But why have you hidden from me until now?”

“It was for the best,” Loki says, mesmerised by the heat of Thor’s touch; it ought to burn, like iron, and yet is seems to soothe him, to creep from his hand to his chest and up and into his cheeks. “For your sake as much as mine. Our worlds were never meant to mix.”

“I do not see why,” Thor says. “You sent Fenrir to me often enough.”

At his name, Fenrir cannot contain himself any longer, and he leaps out from the waterfall, jumping up at Thor like a faithful dog – something he certainly would not survive doing to Loki. It allows Loki to break away from Thor though, to take a few sharp breaths. What is he _doing_?

“It is good to see you again,” Thor says, playfully wrestling with Fenrir. “Best of wolves!”

Fenrir lets go of Thor’s arm and gives Loki a pleading look.

“Oh, very well,” Loki says. “Thor, this is Fenrir.”

“I know,” Thor starts, but Fenrir cuts in before he can go any further.

“Hello, Thor!” he says. “It has been a pleasure watching you grow up into such a fine Prince.”

Thor stares, wide-eyed, for a few moments, and then throws his head back and laughs.

“A fairy wolf!” he says. “I am twice blessed. Well met, Fenrir. I have always thought of you as a dear friend, and I look forward to getting to know you better.”

“As do I,” Fenrir says happily. “There is so much you to explore here, you will love it -”

“I do love it,” Thor says, returning his attention to Loki. “I have always loved it here. I am so glad you have finally let me in.”

Loki stares at him, responses wheeling through his mind. He brought Thor here on a whim, to see how he would react to something new; so why is it Loki who is struggling to understand what is happening, what has changed in so brief a conversation? He should remove Thor from Jotunheim immediately, lock the borders, make sure no Asgardian can ever, ever return, and he is already summoning the magic to do so, sparks flaring at his fingertips, as Thor gives him a warm, trusting smile.

“Thank you,” Thor says, and with two quick steps he presses himself against Loki, sweeping him into a warm embrace, arms tucked around Loki’s waist, furred cheek rough but not unpleasant against Loki’s own.

Loki panics.

The ice swallows Thor before Loki even realises he’s called it, a solid, reassuring barrier between himself and the startled Asgardian. Unconsciousness follows almost immediately and Loki can worm his way free with a little dignity intact.

“Master,” Fenrir says, and it’s a good thing for him that he sounds more shocked than amused. “Why -”

“Don’t start,” Loki snarls, suddenly foul tempered. “The boy is Odin’s son! How dare he lay hands on me!”

“Thor thinks you his protector,” Fenrir says, ears flattening as Loki wheels on him, but refusing to back down. “And he is neither a boy nor simply your enemy’s son.”

“I know,” Loki says sharply. “I – what _is_ this fairy godfather nonsense? Rank stupidity!”

Fenrir mutters something under his breath but only whines when Loki glares at him. But there is no point taking it out on Fenrir when the real reason for Loki’s confusion is sleeping in a block of ice, frozen in place with his arms outstretched.

Loki dismisses the ice with a thought and lets the sleeping Thor fall backwards into him. He’s far, far heavier this time, and his height makes it more awkward, but Loki can still lift him and carry him suspended in his arms, his lolling head tucked against Loki’s chest. Looking down at him from this angle, Loki can see his pale eyelashes flutter as he dreams, and he can look his fill at Thor’s handsome face without fear of what the idiot will say or do next.

“What now?” Fenrir asks as Loki gives in to a temptation he did not know existed, and presses his face against Thor’s hair. It’s softer than he expected, and Thor’s scent stronger; the intimacy of the touch stirs something he thought he had lost along with his wings, when he locked his heart away in the Casket’s grip.

“I have no idea,” Loki says, Thor’s weight heavy against his heart.

***

**IV: To try and keep him**

Loki waits beneath the old oak tree, pacing anxiously. He has met Thor here dozens of times over the last year, always with the same, strange bubbling excitement that turns to a warm glow whenever Thor arrives, flushed and grinning and so obviously delighted to see him. To think, he had almost closed the border to Thor after that disastrous first meeting, almost rejected him out of hand as too strange, too confusing a threat to be borne. But the sight of Thor pacing the border, day after day, had kept the embers of his curiosity burning and it had taken him only about a week to give in to temptation again and show himself to Thor.

How they got from there to here, from Loki grudgingly escorting Thor around the icelands to eagerly waiting for him to arrive, Loki does not know; neither does he understand why he finds such happiness in Thor’s company, why his days are brighter when he shares something of his people and his magic with Thor, or why he finds such peace when they sit companionably together, shoulders brushing as they talk.

It was not like this with Odin – that was wariness, and mutual need, a curiosity about what each could do for the other. This is both simpler and far more complicated, for there is nothing Thor brings to Loki except his time and company, and yet there is nothing Loki wants more, and though he now knows Thor far better than he has ever known another person, he finds himself grasping for more, a deeper knowing that he cannot name, but feels the ache of all the same. In Thor’s presence his hands stray to touch him almost without Loki’s will, to reassure him that he is there, with him, to luxuriate in the heady warmth of his skin and the tingling it leaves in Loki.

There can only be one explanation for Loki’s feelings. It is the shame of the curse.

Loki has tried to break it, oh, how he has tried: he has clawed at it, screamed and howled at it, drawn on every scrap of power he has while Thor slept, trying every spell, every charm he could find to shatter the doom he placed on an innocent child. He knows now he should never have done it, to anyone, but what good is that knowledge when he cannot save the one person he cares most for, the one true friend he has found? He has tried everything but nothing has worked, and so every moment of happiness, every blissful afternoon with Thor is tempered with the agony of knowing that Thor’s time is slipping away.

That it has already slipped away. Thor has but a few days left until his twenty-first birthday, and Loki is half mad with panic at the thought. Since he cannot save him, all he can think to do is hold onto him, savour every moment left, and so yesterday he asked Thor if he would like to stay a few days in the icelands, as an early birthday treat. Thor’s absolute joy had him choking on guilt and regret, but he cannot dwell on that now: he will make these last few days an endless round of delights for Thor, and will give him anything he asks for, anything at all.

But where is he? He should be here by now! Has something gone wrong at the castle? He should have sent Fenrir with him after all, instead of setting him loose, with strict instructions not to interrupt his time with Thor.

Loki paces and paces, frets and frets, and is on the verge of crossing the border himself when at last Thor appears, his cloak blazing crimson against the white of the icelands.

“Thor!” Loki calls joyfully, opening his arms to him – but as Thor closes, Loki can see the fury on his face, the tightness in his body.

“Tell me it isn’t true,” Thor shouts, voice cracking. “Tell me you’re not him!”

Loki’s arms drop.

“Tell me your name,” Thor says, shaking with emotion, and there’s a dreadful hope in his eyes, though it’s clear he already knows the answer. “Tell me who you are. Tell me what you did.”

Thor stopped asking Loki’s name after the second visit, when Loki left him frozen to the oak tree as punishment for being too demanding in his questions. Quite what Thor thought he was – who he was – is something Loki has been avoiding all this time, and Thor has been happy enough to let the matter drop, to trust Loki’s affection, even when Loki introduced him to his brothers, even as the icefolk bowed to Loki as their uncrowned King. He must have heard the stories of the terrible sorcerer who protected the icelands, Loki the wingless, Loki his father’s oldest and bitterest enemy – but Thor didn’t ask and Loki hoped he could forever flee from this conversation. He should have known the truth would find him out.

“I am Loki of Jotunheim,” he says, watching each word land like a blow. “And I cursed you the day you were named Prince of Asgard.”

He’s expecting to be hit in retaliation, and braces as Thor lunges at him, but the impact doesn’t come.

“How could you?” Thor’s hand is fisted in Loki’s robes, dragging him close enough to see that despite Thor’s rage, there are tears pricking at the corner of his eyes, just as there are at Loki’s. “How could you do that to me?”

Loki should have known this day would come, should have prepared for it, and yet now it is here he has no idea what to say. “Revenge was all that mattered to me,” he tries. “After the war – after what Odin did –I wanted him to suffer, as I was suffering.”

“He took your wings,” Thor says. “They told me that. Why didn’t you ever tell me what happened?”

“’He took my wings’,” Loki parrots in a singsong voice. “That doesn’t sound so terrible a punishment, does it? As if he merely held out his hands and took them from me, like an unwanted cloak. Has any Asgardian ever actually thought about what that means? He cut my wings off, Thor! Shackled me in iron and hacked them off! Left me broken and bleeding and alone out here! My wings were my freedom! My power! He mutilated me!”

Thor’s face twists in pity, but it’s not enough to quell his anger. “Why?”

“What?”

“My father is a cruel man,” Thor says. “And in his old age he has little left but hatred and fear. But he was not always so, and our people were not always at war. What happened between the two of you? Why did he hurt you so?”

“To cripple me,” Loki spits. “To ensure that Jotunheim was defeated for good, to stop my brothers from rallying to me after our father fell. Asgard won the war, but it wasn’t enough. To keep the crown he had won on the battlefield, Odin had to prove to the people he was no icefolk-lover. He took my wings as a trophy, a treasure to flaunt to your idiot commoners, the proof of his victory.”

“So why not kill you? Or bring you to Asgard in chains?”

“I don’t know! I wish he had, sometimes!”

“This doesn’t make sense,” Thor says. “What aren’t you telling me? Why would my father need to prove his loyalty after winning a war?”

“Because he couldn’t have done without me!” Loki shouts. “ _I_ showed him the way into Jotunheim. _I_ told him that iron burns my kind _. I_ protected him on the battlefield as our fathers died at each other’s hands, as my people broke and fled!”

Thor stares at him, ashen-faced. “You…and my father?”

“Oh, for the love of - he was not my lover,” Loki says impatiently. “He was my friend. My brother! We swore it in blood! I _trusted_ him. I thought we could build a brighter future, rule our lands in friendship and peace. I wanted the war to be over. I thought he wanted the same. But I was wrong. He wanted only the throne, and he would do anything to get it.”

Thor is quiet for a moment. “He betrayed you,” he says slowly. “Most terribly. I understand your anger. And to take your wings was monstrous. But why curse _me_? I was a babe in arms! I have done you no wrong!”

“You weren’t _you_ ,” Loki says, struggling to find the words. It’s hard enough to remember the utter bleakness of that time, the endless, agonising hate and pain, the way the Casket’s power leeched what little mercy was left in his heart after the war’s end. “I cursed Odin’s heir, the thing he loved most – I wasn’t thinking of you at all. After the war, after losing my wings – I needed power, I needed something to rebuild Jotunheim’s defences, to protect my people from my mistakes. I took the Casket of Ancient Winters, our greatest treasure, from the temple, and I took it into myself – I sacrificed my heart to it, for its strength. I was half-mad with pain and grief. I was willing to do anything, sacrifice anything to get what I wanted.”

“You are no different from my father, then,” Thor says and Loki hisses a denial.

“I didn’t know – I tried to take it back, once I knew you. I would give anything to take it back!”

“But you can’t,” Thor says bitterly. “You betrayed your people and my father betrayed you, and yet it is I who will die for it.”

“You won’t die,” Loki says, hands coming up to cradle Thor’s face. “Your mother made sure of it.”

“Oh, yes,” Thor says, shoving Loki away. “An enchanted sleep for the rest of my days. A far better fate.”

“You can be woken,” Loki says urgently. “By true love’s kiss. I will find them – I will find your true love, Thor, I swear it!”

Thor stares at him in horror. “You don’t understand, do you? Don’t you - after all this time – don’t you know _anything_ about love? About where my heart belongs?”

“No,” Loki admits, and the pain and sorrow on Thor’s face is making it hard to breathe, his heart hammering in his chest. He has never believed in true love, never known anything of it – but it must be true! He cannot bear to lose Thor! “But I will make this right, I swear it.”

Thor laughs again, an ugly, broken sound. “Two vows in less than two minutes,” he says. “You should be more careful with your promises, Loki. Isn’t that why we’re here?”

“I -”

But Thor is turning, is leaving, and Loki is losing him. How can this be?

Loki throws himself towards Thor, holding him tight, his face pressed to Thor’s back. Thor is so broad, so strong, and yet he is shaking under Loki’s hands.

“Please,” he says. He has never begged before, but there is nothing else left to do. “Stay here. Stay with me. As long as you can.”

“That is all I wanted,” Thor says, and his voice is breaking too. “Today, I – I went to tell my father I was leaving, that I would rather live here, with you, than take the throne. That’s why he told me about the curse, that I have but a few days left. He means to use my sleep as a rallying cry for a new war with you, you see. That’s the only reason he’s kept me close, had the people love me. I’m not surprised he’s been using me all this time. But you – you were all I wanted, Loki. All I’ve ever –“

“Stay,” Loki repeats, more urgently. “I have made us a home in the ice.”

“You have made me a tomb,” Thor says. “I must return to the castle. I must speak to my friends, to the soldiers. I will try and stop this war, in the little time I have. Perhaps I can even help with the succession, convince my father to name someone else his heir. I have a duty, whether my father thinks so or not. I will do what I can for both our kind.”

“Thor,” Loki sobs, holding him even closer.

“Goodbye, Loki,” Thor says, gently disentangling himself from Loki’s grasp, and it is small comfort that his hands are shaking as he does so, that he cannot bring himself to look at Loki as he walks away, a Prince most beautiful and graceful and doomed.

Loki stares at his retreating back, remembering every smile, every  laugh with painful clarity; he remembers Thor wrestling with Fenrir in the snow, kicking up great clouds of spray and covering all three of them in fine powder; remembers Thor’s whooping exhilaration as he clung to Loki on the back of an ice-serpent, plunging through the glacial meltwater together; he remembers sketching the constellations for Thor as they stared up at the night sky, the flickering aurora playing over their faces, sharing stories of the heavens neither had heard before.

“No,” Loki says, fingers curling into claws. This shall not be. He has listened to Thor’s tales often enough to know that he cares deeply for many of his Asgardian friends; one of them must be his true love, the shieldmaiden perhaps, and if not, Loki saw him with that stranger from the middle lands, the wanderer with starlight in her eyes, and she certainly felt some spark of affection as she looked on Thor. He will find them, gather them up all up, and march them into Thor’s bedchamber, once he falls, even if it takes him the next hundred years. He will not let this be the end of Thor’s story.

“Fenrir!” he screams as Thor vanishes into the swirling snow. “To the hunt!”

*******

**V: To say goodbye to him**

The door closes softly, all but silently, and yet the muffled click of the lock echoes like heartbreak in the quiet room. Fenrir has dragged the latest hopeful away – the last hopeful, the midland stranger – as he has all the others, and like all the other times, Loki is left sitting at Thor’s side, watching the rise and fall of his chest as he continues to sleep.

There might be others, she had said. If there is such a thing as true love, it might well be love at first sight – there might be someone, out there, who will prove to be Thor’s true love even though they have never met –

Loki had waved her into silence. He has never believed in love, and cannot cling to the slender hope that Thor can be woken by some stranger who does not even know his name, much less the shape of his smile, the courage of his heart. Once the word spreads of the Prince of Asgard’s sleep, he will let the would-be rescuers come – though he will not make it easy – but he no longer believes it will help. The frantic hope that has sustained him these last few days is gone, and now he must face what he has done.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice trembling as he strokes Thor’s hair, teasing it back into place just the way Thor likes it, before pressing a gentle kiss to Thor’s forehead.  “I’m so sorry. I will not ask your forgiveness, because what I have done to you is unforgiveable. But I wish I had told you – I wish I could tell you that you have stolen what is left of my heart. I thought I had nothing left to give, but you, you showed me I was wrong. All I wanted was your happiness, but now – now I have lost you forever. If I could change our places, I would, in a heartbeat, and I – I swear to you, no harm shall ever befall you, and not a day shall pass that I don’t miss your smile. I will stay by your side for the rest of our days. This is where I belong.”

“Loki?”

It’s slurred and soft, but unmistakable, and even as Loki gasps in shock he can see Thor’s eyelids flutter, sees him begin to stir.

“Thor?” he says, fumbling at his shoulders, trying to help him sit up but failing miserably. “But – how -”

Thor yawns and stretches, as if he is waking from a pleasant nap and not days of cursed sleep. “You must see it now,” he says, heavy lidded and beautiful, and Loki cannot help leaning in to look at him more closely, to see the light in his eyes again. “You said it yourself.”

“What?”

“This is where you belong, my love,” Thor says, hands winding into Loki’s hair, and when their lips touch something flares to life in Loki, something long buried and thought dead, a great, giddy rush of joy and hope and love. He surges into Thor’s embrace, meeting the kiss with a ferocious hunger; Thor moans into his mouth in return, and it is the sweetest sound Loki has ever heard.

“I didn’t know,” he says between panting breaths, “oh, Thor, I didn’t know -”

“I forgive you,” Thor says, sliding the words over Loki’s lips, replacing the bitter salt of tears with rich, honeyed sweetness. “I love you.”

“I love you,” Loki echoes, wonder in his voice and in his heart, pressing Thor down onto the bed, no thought in his mind except the impossible thrill of Thor, here, with him. “I _love_ you.”

“Loki,” Thor says again, voice thick as he arches into him, hands slipping down Loki’s body. “Please, Loki, I -”

“Master!” Fenrir barks, scrabbling furiously at the door. “Master! Master!”

They both freeze, sense crashing back into them. Loki’s frustration is mirrored on Thor’s face, but he forces himself up with a snarl and stalks over to the door. The moment he flings it open Fenrir all but falls into the room, fur fluffed up with anxiety.

“Master!” Fenrir yelps. “The soldiers are coming! They know you are here!”

“How many men?” Thor asks, getting to his feet, suddenly serious, but Fenrir is too overcome to answer.

“Thor!” he shouts, bounding up to him with a madly wagging tail. “You’re awake! Oh, Thor, it’s so good to see you! I was so afraid we’d lost you!”

“I am well again,” Thor says, ruffling Fenrir’s head, and Fenrir is so happy to see him he quite fails to notice the heated look he flashes at Loki. “But now is not the time for reunions. How many men are coming?”

“Dozens,” Fenrir says, tail drooping. “I am sorry, Master. They must have seen me getting the girl to safety.”

Thor raises an eyebrow but that is a tale for later. “It is not your fault,” Loki reassures Fenrir. “Odin knew I would come for Thor, though he misunderstands my reasons. He has been waiting for me since Thor came back to the palace. An attack was inevitable.”

“What has happened while I slept?” Thor asks, brushing past Loki with the lightest of touches as he heads for the silver armour standing in the corner of the room. “Has my father declared war?”

“Only on me,” Loki says, cautiously reaching out to help Thor buckle on his breastplate. The metal remains cool to the touch: silver plated then, rather than just silver in colour, with the iron layered deep enough under the silver that it cannot hurt the icefolk. Thor must have had it made without his father’s knowledge. “He and his core troops are laying siege to us even now; he means to see me dead before marching on Jotunheim. In vengeance for what I have done to you.”

Thor exhales slowly. “No more vengeance,” he says, sweeping his crimson cloak around his shoulders and clipping it into place. “No more war. You have healed the hurt you have done to me – and I have forgiven you for it. We must heal the breach between our lands, not reopen old wounds in the name of pride.”

“Spoken like a King,” Loki says, throat tightening as he looks at Thor, gleaming in the pale light. He looks every inch the warrior prince; what happened to the careless youth who wanted nothing more than to run away with Loki into the wilderness?

Thor’s face darkens. “The last few days with my father were…fraught,” he says. “He is not the man he was, much less the King he should be. If I do not take his place, what will happen to my people? Where will his madness lead them?”

“I understand,” Loki says, though he hates that he does. One last act of atonement then, for all his wrongs: he will win Thor his throne and see him safe enough to hold it, before retreating to the wilderness where he belongs. There will be peace for their kingdoms and prosperity for their people. It was madness to ever hope for more. “Your father’s men have standing orders to attack me on sight. Stay here and I will come back for you once it is safe.”

“They will stand down for me,” Thor replies, grabbing him by the hand. “And you must be mad if you think I will simply sit here, twiddling my thumbs, while you fight for our kingdoms.”

“They will think you my puppet,” Loki warns. “A trick, a spell. All know your curse and the only way to break it.”

“I will prove myself their Prince swiftly enough,” Thor says, grinning broadly. “They can doubt all they like as my warhammer puts them flat on their backs.”

“Brat,” Loki says with a humour he does not feel. “Where is this mighty weapon?”

“The armoury?”

“Then you must head there now. I will distract the guards and hold them in the throneroom. You should come to face your father alone, so no-one can accuse you of plotting with me, or being held under my influence.”

Thor doesn’t like this, but it is a sound plan and he has no good objections to prevent Loki from shoving him into the not-so-secret passageways that honeycomb the walls; no-one in the castle will be looking for their sleeping prince, and if Thor is discovered, he has a better chance of winning over the soldiers to his cause alone than if Loki is at his side.

So now all Loki has to do is defeat the combined might of Odin and the ironclad soldiers he has been training to destroy the icefolk, alone, and a long way from the winter that gives him his power.

Beside him, Fenrir raises his hackles and growls. “To war, once again,” Loki says, resigning himself to what is to come. “I must finish what I have started.”

***

**VI: To look after him**

Loki crashes to the ground but forces himself to roll, to get his legs under him and get back on his feet, flinging his ice blades blindly into the mass of ironclad soldiers around him. To his left, Fenrir is spitting ice, steam rising from his scales as he backs away from the flaming torches surround him, and Loki flicks a spell at him as fast as he can, shrinking him back from ice-serpent to wolf, the better to run from their enemies.

He has been holding his own through the desperate chase through the castle to the throneroom, but now he is tiring, the iron all around him bearing down on him, his body crisscrossed with welts from the iron net he only just escaped from. He is strong enough still to break free, to carve a path to the door and out into the wilds, and if he can reach Jotunheim, Loki’s people will rally to him, and with winter behind him Loki knows he can defeat whatever Odin and his army throw at him. Here, in the summerlands, in this iron-infested castle, his chances of survival, never mind victory, are diminishing by the minute.

But if he flees now, what will happen to Thor?

The soldiers circle him, all the same in their heavy black armour, leaving only a few slivers of skin for Loki to aim at. He hisses at them and they shy away, obviously afraid – but not afraid enough, for their swordpoints remain high. He settles himself, standing tall, and calls up a sword of his own, hoping that they will not see how brittle his ice has become in the heat of their fires.

“Leave him!” comes a ringing shout, but there is no comfort in it for Loki, and as the circle parts he curls his lip into a sneer.

“Ah, my old friend,” he says as Asgard’s King steps into the ring, the gap closing behind him. “Have you finally had enough of watching your soldiers fail to stop me?”

Odin lifts a mailed fist. “The sorcerer is mine!” he shouts to his men. “Too long have we feared the creatures of the icelands! This monster has killed my son! Your Prince! Now, he will fall to my hand!”

“Prince Thor is not dead,” Loki shouts back, for all the good it will do. “He has awoken! He is on his way here even now!”

“Lies,” Odin sneers, unsurprisingly, and Loki shrugs. They will see the truth once Thor arrives, though for the sake of his skin he hopes it will be sooner rather than later.

It is the first time Loki has seen Odin since the day his wings were taken, and it is a shock to see how swiftly he has aged, his beard and the hair that curls at the bottom of his helm pure white with age instead of the sandy gold Loki remembers. He still looks strong and fierce with his spear in hand, but his face is scored with hatred and greed, the furrows and lines magnified by the scowl he fixes on Loki. For a moment, Loki feels a pang of sorrow for the clever, charming youth he had called his blood brother – but before he can say any more, Odin jabs the iron spear at him, the tip flaring red as Loki rebuffs it, and whatever else Odin has lost over the years, his fighting skill is still as sharp as it ever was.

Loki fights back with his frozen sword, grateful at least for the obedience of Odin’s soldiers, who maintain the circle around them but make no effort to interfere. Odin always was gifted with his spear, and Loki I already at a disadvantage with his sword’s lack of range; when the ice-blade shatters he flings the shards as daggers, aiming for Odin’s eyes, pushing him back for a moment’s respite. He has not fought since he lost his wings, has never fought an ironclad opponent without the manoeuvrability of flight, and as Odin drives him back against the iron shields hemming him in, the knowledge of his own inadequacy begins to bubble low in his belly. He is not the champion he once was.

Still, he throws his knives and dances away, casts doubles and calls up flurries of snow, strikes out whenever Odin comes in range and kicks and kicks and kicks until the soles of his feet are bleeding, the skin burnt away from the impact of the iron. It makes him slow, hampers him further, and then, as he twists away from the extended spear, he slips, and Odin lashes at his buckling legs, knocking him clear across the circle.

Somewhere behind the men looming over him he can hear Fenrir howling, hear the crash as the wolf’s body collides with the soldiers keeping them apart, and he wishes he had the breath to tell his faithful friend to go, to abandon him while he still can. He staggers to his feet, holding himself with all the dignity he can muster, ignoring how Odin is laughing at him, his spear held loosely at his side. He thinks Loki beaten, but wants to prolong the enjoyment a little longer, keep going until Loki begs him for a swift death and an end to the pain.

Not so different from before, after all.

“Loki!” Thor bellows, and through the haze of smoke and pain, Loki sees him: running towards him, a massive warhammer strapped to his side, the most beautiful sight Loki has ever seen. The soldiers part for him, their cries of surprise and joy audible even through their helms, but Loki only has eyes for the huge, writhing bundle gripped firmly in his hands.

His wings.

“No!” Odin howls, spearhead whistling towards his son, but Thor leaps, impossibly high, Loki’s wings flaring out to help him, and he soars over his father’s head and skids to a halt at Loki’s back. He tears at the leather encasing Loki’s back, ripping great strips of his clothes away until he can press the ragged edges of the wings to the web of scars over Loki’s shoulderblades.

Thor’s hands are warm against his skin, thumbs stroking slightly before he removes them, but before Loki can even shiver at the touch he is doubling over, sobbing with ecstasy and agony as his bones knit, flesh burning as his wings force themselves back into his body, as strong and as glorious as he remembered.

 _His wings_.

He never dreamt that they existed still, much less that they were here, in Odin’s keeping, all this time - power blooms within him, as fresh and pure as newfallen snow, the cold that burns roaring in his chest. As his heart heals, it pushes out the Casket, bound tightly within, the heart of winter forming between his hands as it leaves his body. Between his love and his whole self there is no room for it any longer, and the Casket blazes like a star as it returns to its rightful form.

Odin strikes at him as he gasps, tears pouring down his face, but Thor is there in an instant, metal screeching as his warhammer knocks the iron spearpoint away.

“You would protect this filth?” Odin roars at him, striking out wildly at them both. “Look at him! This monster tried to kill you!”

“Loki saved me,” Thor shouts back, a solid wall between Loki and the spear. “He loves me! And I love him!”

“ _Love_?” Odin spits, spearpoint stopping to point directly at Loki’s face. “A thing like that?”

Thor half-turns, keeping an eye on his father as he glances at Loki – who, as he rises, focuses on his hands, on the deep, rich blue that has swirled over them now he holds the Casket in his fist. His Asgardian illusion has shattered under the raw magic pouring in and out of him, and as he gets to his feet, more of his clothing falls away in tatters, revealing even more inhumanely blue skin.

Loki lifts red eyes to Thor and stands before him in his icefolk skin for the first time, cobalt and azure stark against his dark wings, his gold-tipped horns exposed and everything he is truly is laid bare before all the room.

Thor smiles. “I love him,” he says again, pitching his voice to carry around the room. “I love Loki of Jotunheim.”

The soldiers shift and mutter, though whether in disgust or confusion Loki cannot tell. But what does it matter when Thor takes his free hand, unfazed by the chill of his skin, and raises it to his lips. “You look beautiful,” he says, taking in Loki’s wings and skin and horns with wonder. “More magnificent than I ever imagined.”

“You’ve lost your mind,” Odin says, recoiling from both of them. “The damned sorcerer’s bewitched you – you’re no son of mine!”

Thor releases Loki’s hand and turns to face his father, tightening his grip on the hammer, but this time, it is Loki who steps in front of him, spreading his wings wide to loom over Odin.

“I owe you a debt, old friend,” Loki says. “Like for like.”

“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” Odin spits, but Loki is tired of the old bastard’s poison and he launches himself into the air, carefully aiming the sudden downdraft at Thor, who is buffeted across the room with a surprised yelp. Fenrir chases after Thor, leaping between him and the handful of guards who have turned on him, taking Odin’s disownment to heart. But Odin wheels with him, more interested in stabbing at Loki than what has become of Thor, and Loki dives, slamming bodily into Odin and knocking him through the window and out onto the parapet. The iron armour sizzles against his skin, blisters erupting where it touches bare flesh, and he cannot keep his hold but must kick Odin away and climb into the dark sky.

“You’ve stolen my son,” Odin shouts at him, back on his feet in seconds, still nimble despite his age. “Corrupted him! Better you’d killed him, you foul witch!”

Despite the blisters and the pain, Loki laughs, high and triumphant. So he has his vengeance after all! What better punishment for Odin than to see his son take his throne, to see Loki place a crown of peace and friendship on his brow?

He raises the Casket high, the air around it condensing to snow as he draws on its power, summoning the deep ice of true winter, enough to trap Odin and keep him unconscious until Thor’s coronation. A public execution will not be as satisfying as killing Odin with his own hands, but it will be more than worth it to see him squirm as Thor declares their realms united.

But he is slow with the Casket, unused to wielding it as a weapon after having it beat in his breast for so many years, and slower still in the summer warmth that lingers in the night air, and Odin is fast, faster than a man of his age ought to be, fuelled still by the madness and bitter loathing that Loki has left behind. He makes to throw his spear and Loki banks, clumsy in the air after so long on the ground, losing focus with the Casket, and before he can recover Odin shifts his grip and sends the spear whistling through the air at full extension, the long iron shaft slapping against Loki’s bare chest.

Loki chokes, the breath driven from him; the force of the impact is not that great, but the burning pain and the smell of his skin charring is nauseating and he falls, landing in a sprawl with the spear still pressing against his chest. The Casket bounces away as he kicks out, trying to push himself away, but Odin follows, lips peeled back in a manic grin as he bears down, holding down the spear shaft rather than use the point. Loki shrieks and slaps at him with his wings, hands scrabbling as he drags himself across the flagstones until his back hits the wall of the parapet.

He can hear Thor shouting, hear Fenrir howling, but both are too far away as Odin looms over him, bloodlust contorting his features. There is nothing of the boy Loki knew in him, nothing of the man he once called friend, and Loki shudders to think how close he came to losing himself to hate. But he will not die this day, and never at Odin’s hand, and he snarls his defiance into Odin’s gloating face.

Loki seizes the spear, swallowing down his gorge as his hands crack and bleed, and twists it violently, throwing Odin off balance and sending him lurching to the left. Loki squirms right, sobbing as a line of welts erupt across his arm as he wriggles free and gets his hands on the wall behind him. It’s is low and crumbling, like much of the castle, and Loki pitches forward, knees scraping across the ancient brickwork, reaching for freefall, but even as gravity tugs him down, there is a new flare of pain in his ankle.

Odin seizes him and begins to drag him back, but Loki digs his injured fingers into the flaking mortar and beats his wings as hard as he can; Odin stumbles back, releasing his grip, and Loki is free, tumbling through the air until his wings snap out, muscles screaming as he frantically beats them, struggling for lift and control –

The spear tears through his side and he screams –

But Odin is screaming too, plummeting past him a blur of black armour, and even as Loki is falling, grasping desperately at the castle walls, he hears the sickening crack as Odin hits the ground. His hands close on something, jerking his fall to a halt, and then there’s silence, blissful silence and stillness, as he hangs from the stonework and takes a deep breath.

He’s dizzy with pain and exhaustion, clinging to a rainspout, and it takes him a long moment to look down and piece together what has happened. Odin must have leant out over the parapet to hurl the spear and overbalanced himself in his eagerness to make the kill. Loki grits his teeth and forces himself to grip the spear again, yanking it out as swiftly as he can, watching with his hand pressed over his side as it arcs through the air, hitting the flagstones far below with a mournful clang.

“Loki!” Thor’s head appears over the parapet, blanched white with fear, mouth twisting as he takes in the scene: his father, lying broken in the courtyard, and Loki, blood soaking what is left of his clothes, forcing his wings to beat and carry him back up to Thor.

It should be a relief to slump against Thor, to feel Fenrir push against his legs, both a warm brace against his failing body, and it is certainly a comfort to know it is over, that Odin is gone and Thor is safe, and that he can finally move on from all the pain of the past. But there is no victory in him, for even as Thor murmurs soft nothings to him, wadding up his cloak and pressing it against the wound in his side, the soldiers of Asgard are massing around them, and Loki knows they are not finished yet.

“I must go,” Loki says, instinctively drawing his wings closer around them.

“What? Are you mad? You’re not in any state to go anywhere!”

“I must return to Jotunheim,” Loki says, pushing away from Thor and ignoring Fenrir’s grunt as he shifts his weight to the wolf.

“Must you heal yourself there?” Thor asks, brows knitted in concern. “Could we not bring some of the icefolk here to help you?”

Loki will find it easier to heal in the winterlands, away from the uncomfortable heat and all this bloody iron, but that’s not why he needs to go. “Your father is dead,” he says urgently, darting a glance at the milling soldiers, unable to read their expressions beneath their heavy helms. “You must be their King now, and I must be gone from here, before I taint your reign further.”

“Taint?” Thor says loudly. “What taint? _Our_ reign begins here and now – but what matters most is your health.”

“Shut up,” Loki hisses, acutely aware of the tramp of iron boots, the scraping of breastplates and ringing of spear butts against stone. “Don’t you see how this looks? Your father dead and you clinging to the ice giant that killed him? The ice giant that cursed you? It’s bad enough that you haven’t killed me already, but if I flee now we can buy some time for you to consolidate your power, be crowned King and then launch the peace negotiations with my brothers -”

Loki splutters to a halt as Thor’s mouth presses against his, the kiss warm and gentle, and in an instant he forgets the soldiers, forgets his aching body, and knows only the heady sense of stars bursting within him, the taste of Thor filling him and carrying him higher than even his wings ever did.

“No more,” Thor breathes against him when they part, Loki reeling a little. “No more vengeance, no more lies. No more _fighting_. Did you think I would let you go so easily, now that I know what is in your heart?”

“Oh,” Loki says – but then he shakes his head. “Your people will never accept me as your consort,” he points out. “You must marry a woman of your own kind, to be a Queen as great as your mother was, and to give children to carry on the royal line.”

Thor’s hand closes tightly around his. “Our people will find this change hard,” he says firmly, “but change always is. We will show them how to live in peace together. And when the day comes, I see no reason why I cannot name a heir worthy of my kingdom, whoever’s child they may be. The old ways are done. Let us use this hammer to build, rather than destroy.”

A sensible answer, showing a defter hand at politicking than Loki would expect from his wildling Prince – but there is more to being King than words, however fine.  

“It is not that easy,” he says. “There is so much still to discuss, so much distrust between our people -”

“Loki,” Thor says, so very close and so very warm. “Forget our kingdoms for now. Forget the past. I know you love me. Do you want to be with me?”

“Yes,” Loki says helplessly. “Of course, yes.”

“Then marry me,” Thor says, his smile brilliant against the starlight above. “The rest can wait.”

Loki stares at him for several long minutes before sucking in a shaky breath. “Idiot,” he says. “You stupid, hopeless idiot. I’m practically bleeding to death, your father’s soldiers are twitchy at best, and you have a coronation to arrange and a kingdom to reform. Do you really think that now is the right time to propose?”

“Is that a yes?”

Loki throws his hands up and immediately regrets it, swaying on his feet and slumping back against Thor’s chest. “Of course it’s a yes,” he mumbles against Thor’s throat. “Now take me to bed, brat. You might have had all the sleep you need but I am exhausted.”

Thor’s laugh rumbles in his chest, and Fenrir’s  tail beats against Loki’s legs in delight, even as he quickly explains to Thor that actually, Loki will need to be returned to the icelands, with the Casket, where he can be looked after properly. Loki is too tired to concentrate on any of it, or the ripple of conversation flowing through the Asgardians as the dramatic events of the evening spread through the castle; he can’t even bring himself to care as Thor picks him up, managing admirably given their equal height and the encumbrance of Loki’s enormous trailing wings. Instead simply curls into him, listening to the steady thunder of Thor’s heartbeat, and trusts that all will be well now he is in his true love’s arms.

***

 **Epilogue:** **One time they held each other**

Loki waits for Thor beneath the old oak tree, Fenrir at his side, keeping a watchful eye on the pillow at his feet and its precious cargo. The tree groans with new life, ancient timbers creaking with fresh sap, and the icefolk all around them murmur in wonder at the profusion of wildflowers sprouting around its base and the scent of honeysuckle and jasmine in the air. There are still patches of snow in the borderlands, and the shadows of the trees are cold enough to keep the ice giants crouching in them comfortable enough, but the patches of sunshine are warmer than they have been for decades, and the Asgardians gathered in them have thrown off their fur-lined cloaks and turn their faces to the sun and the cloudless sky.

Here, basking in gold and brilliant blue, is the place where summer and winter meets: spring has come to the borderlands, an answer so simple that it is a wonder neither ice giant nor Asgardian ever thought of it before.

Thor’s crown gleams in garnet and silver, catching the light as he proceeds down the woodland aisle, but his beaming smile easily outshines it and despite the wave of bows and curtseys as he passes, he has eyes only for Loki. It will take more than fine words and promises to undo all the past has wrought, as Loki knew it would, but he refuses to let such thoughts cloud this brightest of days and his heart is full of nothing but joy as Thor takes his place beside him to pledge their vows.

The ceremony passes almost too fast for Loki to follow, and he will remember it only as a blur of colour and sudden, frozen sensations: the delicate fragrance of their bridal wreaths, Loki placing Thor’s atop his Asgardian crown and receiving one carefully shaped to show off his horns; the peculiar weight of the wedding ring on his finger, and the soft chime when it catches against Thor’s as they join hands; the silken pressure of the handfasting cord as they swear their love for one another, and the honey-sweet taste of Thor’s lips as their guests roar and cheer and howl in approval. It’s not until he’s sipping at the marriage cup that it hits him: he is married, and Thor is his husband. The shock of his good fortune is overwhelming; his knees buckle, but even as he sags to the floor Thor catches him and helps him back on his feet.

“Oh, we’re not done yet,” Thor says, kissing his hand. A small group of his people have produced strange bits of metal and are starting to make a rhythmic sound with them that has the others clapping and singing, and they are calling for Thor and Loki to join them. “Dance with me.”

The icefolk are looking on curiously, intrigued by this Asgardian custom, but Loki is not inclined to put on a show. “Oh, no,” he demurs. “I am no dancer.”

“All my life you have been the shadow at my back,” Thor says. “It’s time you stepped into the light.”

Loki wrinkles his nose. “How long have you been practising that little speech?”

“A few hours,” Thor admits. “But I do mean it. Let me lead you for once.”

“Just don’t step on my toes,” Loki says, prodding Thor’s booted foot with his own bare one. “It will be a fine start to our marriage if I have to curse you with red-hot dancing shoes.”

“That’s easily avoided,” Thor says with a smile, wrapping his arms around Loki’s waist before suddenly hoisting him upwards. Loki instinctively flares his wings but Thor lifts him with ease and it’s surprisingly comfortable to hold on to Thor’s huge arms and let his weight rest against him, to let Thor hold him up and hold him close. Thor is as solid as the oak tree blooming behind them and just as vibrant with life, flower petals scattering from his hair as they twirl together in the warm sunshine.

“I hate you, little beast,” Loki whispers and Thor laughs.

“I love you too, most wicked and terrible of sorcerers,” he replies, and really, there’s nothing to be done but to silence the fool with another kiss.

Later, they will lay down in the soft grass that has sprung up around the oak tree, where the snowdrops and primroses both tremble in the spring breeze, and there Loki will at last be able to touch and taste his fill, to learn every inch of Thor as he has no other, and to let himself be known in the same way. There, they will hold each other through the night, and it will be but the first of many nights, and but the beginning of their lives together.

But for now, they are only dancing, cheek to cheek and palm to palm, easy in each other’s arms, kings and consorts both, and in the sweet spring sunshine on one thing all here present are agreed: true love conquers all.


End file.
